(Read Part 1–Diagnosis here, Part 2–Chemotherapy here and Part 3–Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow here)
Let me just put this right here: in my opinion, radiation oncology techs are some of the most amazing people in the world. Talk about inspirational! For breast cancer patients (or at least for me), this could be one of the most embarrassing, awkward, humiliating, and vulnerable things you can ever endure. My chemo nurses were awesome, but the radiation techs are my heroes, because they made all those helpless feelings go away as they treated me with delicacy, concern, respect, dignity, and compassion. I gave them a huge basket of goodies as a thank you when I was done and wish I could have done more. They just made all the difference in the world to this modest Christian woman in the most uncomfortable situation of her life.
Nothing about treatment for breast cancer is easy, but the emotional ramifications were complex. Every experience was new and I didn’t know what to expect. For radiation, my support group had to wait in the outer lounge while we patients went into a locker room to disrobe and put a gown on, then wait in a small room with anywhere from 1 to 7 other women in various stages of their treatment.
My first time there, those who had already been where I was now shared stories, being very vulnerable and open, even showing their scars and radiation “sunburns” to let me know what to expect. Each one went for their treatment In turn as we were called in like kids being called into the principal’s office. This radiation club was a pretty upbeat group for the most part, and we became a little family with members coming and going throughout the nine weeks of my treatment, as rookies joined us and others completed their radiation therapy, which we all celebrated. There was a TV in the room, and Rachel Ray was on nearly every time I went. You’d think I would have learned to be a better cook in the time I spent there.
Before beginning radiation I had what was called simulation in a machine (simulator) which looked kind of like an open MRI. This is a special X-ray machine used to pinpoint exactly where the radiation should go. Then in my first radiation appointment they tattooed 4 pinpoint marks at four corners which would criss-cross at the point of radiation. This is useful if you ever need radiation again, to know where it has been done. I got tattooed! Oh dear, I never thought I’d see the day!
The college where I taught was 30 miles in the opposite direction from all my cancer treatments. So for most of the 33 days of radiation I left after my last class and drove straight there six days a week, with my husband sometimes meeting me halfway and leaving his car at Taco Bell to drive me the rest of the way. Finally it was summer break for my daughters. They came home and one or the other usually drove me for the last month. Other than the radiation burn, which can be pretty severe (but pure aloe helped alleviate it a bit), exhaustion was the worst part of radiation, at least for me.
Once the nine weeks of radiation were complete (June 13, 2010, but who’s keeping track?) my Herceptin infusions began. Two moments (maybe I should say “shenanigans”) really stand out from those two years. I met a woman about my age in the radiation clinic, and afterwards she had chemo on the same days I had Herceptin. I wonder if the nurses and other patients remember the day when we got caught up in teen memories and celebrity crushes (“fangirling,” if that had been a term back then), and sang pretty much the whole “Herman’s Hermits” repertoire! To be fair, there were only a few patients there at the time, and they gave us their blessing. I was just reminded that my sisters and I also serenaded the room occasionally. Did I mention that we sang and performed together for pretty much all our adult years? If not, I will in another post.
The other memory is one of the days my oldest sister was with the doctor and me in the examination room and at some point—I can’t even tell you what prompted it—one of them sang a snatch of “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof. Next thing I knew, they were belting out the entire song in an impromptu duet! It was pretty cool and utterly crazy—my Jewish doctor channeling Tevye harmonizing with my big sis as Golde. Unforgettable! He’s retired now—I wonder if he remembers it. I mean, though, how could he forget it?
A year passed, as years do. In December my younger daughter baked me a giant heart-shaped brownie to celebrate my being cancer free since my successful surgery the year before. We celebrate all the milestones.
I was looking through my FB posts from my cancer journey while writing this post, and came across this from October, 2012:
Still shaking my head over that one.
My girls participated in Relay for Life at their university while I was in treatment. Oh my heart! That made me cry. I’m sorry for the burden my cancer put on their hearts, but I’m so proud of them for their support of me and of the “cause.” Every woman is a hero and deserves to not just survive, but thrive. I pray a cure will one day be discovered, and a time will come when pink is just a color again.
Eventually the day came when my doctor said, “This is your penultimate treatment!” I said, “I thought I had one more after this.” You know I love words, and I pride myself on my vocabulary, but I didn’t know this word. However, it had “ultimate” in it, so clearly I got it. Or not. My doctor either laughed or looked at me pityingly (I don’t remember which but I’m sure it was one or the other) and informed me that penultimate meant next to last. Yay! I learned a new word! Oh, and yay that I was almost done with Herceptin! And other than 3 more years of taking Letrozole tablets and regular checkups (including mammos) for the rest of my life, it would be my last cancer treatment ever. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.
Do you see the stowaway?
I had one more hurdle, and that was genetic counseling, because my having HER2 positive cancer could mean my daughters would have a predisposition toward it. We have had lots of cancer on both sides of my family, but as I discussed it with the geneticist and she drew out a chart, she determined that while we had a familial disposition toward cancer, they were all different types, and I was the only one with breast cancer, with no ovarian cancer in the family. She wasn’t even concerned enough to recommend further testing. My girls should probably start getting mammos when they turn 40, but if there was concern that the HER2 was genetic, they would have needed to start way earlier. BIG sigh of relief and thanks to God.
My hair grew back, curly strand by curly strand. It eventually straightened out again when it got longer. But I had little-old-lady friends at church who were envious because they said they paid lots of money for perms to make their hair look like mine. One of my daughter’s friends tried to convince me it didn’t look bad by telling me her grandmother wore hers the same way. Yeah, that helped. Now, I had rocked a curly perm when I got married; but I had left that look behind ages ago. Other than the ease of care, (next to bald it was the easiest to take care of), I was ready to have my old hair back. Or my new hair, as the case may be. I can proudly say I’m back to “normal” now (although it could be argued I’ve never been normal).
It was Eleanor Roosevelt who wrote, “You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
I am a breast cancer survivor. I feel like I can do anything now because I conquereD, by necessitY, my biggest fear—chemo—with God’s help, SKILLED AND CARING doctors, nurses, and tEchs, and the incredible support of my family and friends. I’m ten years out and feeling fantastic! GOD IS GOOD, ALL THE TIME.
FINI
